He Enters, And Mute On The Edge Of A Chair Sits A Thin-Faced Lady, A Stranger There, A Type Of Decayed Gentility; And By Some Small Signs He Well Can Guess That She Comes To Him Almost Breakfastless. "I Have Called I Hope I Do Not Err - I Am Looking For A Purchaser Of Some Score Volumes Of The Works Of Eminent Divines I Own, - Left By My Father Though It Irks My Patience To Offer Them." And She Smiles As If Necessity Were Unknown; "But The Truth Of It Is That Oftenwhiles I Have Wished, As I Am Fond Of Art, To Make My Rooms A Little Smart." And Lightly Still She Laughs To Him, As If To Sell Were A Mere Gay Whim, And That, To Be Frank, Life Were Indeed To Her Not Vinegar And Gall, But Fresh And Honey-Like; And Need No Household Skeleton At All.